Origins: Shadow of the Blight
by Syntyche
Summary: An eclectic group is thrown together with the weight of saving Ferelden thrust upon their shoulders. But saving the world is one thing; everybody getting along? That's something else. Alistair, all party members, major spoilers and backstories abound.
1. Ostagar: When Death Sought Me

**Title:** Origins: Shadow of the Blight

**Author:** Syntyche

**Rating:** T, though some chapters will be stronger with appropriate warnings posted.

**Archive:** Ask me first, just so I know where it's going.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing; I'm just playing.

**Summary:** An eclectic group is thrown together with the weight of saving Ferelden thrust upon their shoulders. But saving the world is one thing; everybody getting along? That's something else. AU, Alistair, Morrigan, all party members, major spoilers and backstories abound.

**Author's note:** I'm not gonna lie, I have no idea where this gargantuan plot bunny came from, but I think it has to do with Alistair's unholy love of cheese.

**Character note:** From the PCs I have chosen the human noble, rogue, with the preset Cousland name of Elissa. For reference sake, she's the first human female preset. I'm just lazy that way.

**Reviews:** Of course. If a story interests you, please let the author know you'd like them to keep writing it. It _**is**_ important. We write for love of the story and its characters, but it's so, so encouraging to get a little love (or constructive criticism) back from the readers.

**Finally, requests:** Because Dragon Age is such a vast canvas to paint on, I will be accepting requests for this fic: scenes you'd like to see or dialogue you'd like to hear, and if I can work it into the storyline, I certainly will. Reader participation goes a long way toward enhancing a story, and sometimes there's a scene you might really want to see but aren't interested in writing it for yourself, such as: Alistair and Oghren come to blows over that giant cheese circle in front of Oghren's tent. Humor, drama, romance; as long as it fits, I'll write it in, just leave your request in a review or pm me.

And now, if there are any readers left after the massive intro info, on with the story…

**Origins: Shadow of the Blight**

By: Syntyche

Chapter One: When Death Sought Me

The King's boldly presumed victory was turning into a massacre.

Duncan hastily brushed a lock of grey-flecked hair back from his eyes, his stomach turning as he realized he was leaving a smear of darkspawn blood in the wake of his glove's pass across his forehead. The metallic-smelling stickiness nauseated him, but there was no time to clean it off – wave after wave of darkspawn rushed toward him and the other Grey Wardens nearby as they struggled to fend off the onslaught while protecting the King. Duncan shot a frantic glance upward, desperate now for the signal beacon to be lit that would call in Loghain's waiting reinforcements, but of yet no fire burned atop the Tower of Ishal.

They could not hold out much longer. Would today be his last to walk this earth?

There was still so much he had to do, and the thought of his young charge Alistair weighed heavily on his mind even as he brought his gore-soaked blade up for another pass through a slavering genlock as it approached him, bloodstained weapon brandished high. He worried not at all for Alistair's prowess in battle – the ex-Templar was quite skilled on that front, with rigorous Chantry training that matched some Grey Wardens' – but Duncan had only a few short months ago conscripted Alistair into the Wardens and there was much he had not yet told the other man – selfishly, and now to his shame; for how could Alistair not feel betrayed when he learned, as Duncan knew he would as the Blight grew, the most important reason for the Grey Wardens: the Sacrifice that must be made?

But Duncan had not told Alistair. Perhaps he had let his emotions get in the way, not wanting to shake so soon the young man's obvious gratitude at being pulled from his unhappy life in the Chantry. As a young initiate and later a Templar-in-training, Alistair had lived a life both sheltered and harsh: the legacy left him by his father, the late King Maric Theirin.

A hurlock's head tumbled to the ground at his feet, spewing filthy blood across his boots and Duncan realized his time was growing short – _Alistair, __**please**__ get to the beacon!_ Word had swept through the army that the Tower was full of darkspawn, and it filled Duncan with horror; thinking to keep his newest recruits away from the initial onslaught, he had agreed to Cailan's request to send Wardens to the Tower to ensure the signal fire was lit. Neither Alistair nor the young Cousland were happy about being tasked with a messenger's errand, but they had agreed reluctantly, setting off before the full brunt of the first assault was upon the armies. And now to hear that darkspawn swarmed the Tower? Had Duncan unwittingly sent them to their doom?

Relentlessly, Duncan continued his grisly slaughter of the never-ending darkspawn though his arms ached with weariness. Nearby he could see that even Cailan's golden shield was drooping and he spared a moment of saddened regret that the king's boyish enthusiasm had come to such a horrifying end.

Stab, slash, block, repeat… sweat stung his eyes but a welcome cheer reached his ears and he glanced up as flames atop the Tower of Ishal shot up in the night – somehow the two Wardens had managed to make it to the top of the Tower and Duncan smiled grimly; the reinforcements were sorely needed and he listened expectantly over the din for the battle call from Loghain's horns announcing the arrival of the Teryn's vast forces.

But the eager Grey Warden quickly learned it was not to be and no help was forthcoming. Teryn Loghain and his armies had quit the field, leaving those left to die horribly at the claws of the darkspawn.

A bright glint of armor in his peripheral vision and a vicious snarl and Duncan staggered around in time to see Cailan swept up into the fist of a huge ogre. There was a moment of stunned disbelief where time seemed to stand still, before the ogre's victorious howl rent the air as he tightened his grasp and blood from Cailan's crushed body splattered the field and those crowded nearby. Tossing the dead king aside like a child's doll, the massive, horned beast turned its attention to Duncan as the Warden stared in shocked incredulity.

"_We've won three battles against these monsters already; tomorrow should be no different,"_ Cailan had said. Acting on instinct, Duncan pulled his dagger from its sheath, balancing his longsword easily in his right hand. Launching himself at the ogre, he grimaced in satisfaction as the wickedly sharp blades sank deep into the ogre's thick flesh and he willed arms that no longer wanted to obey to bring him up, up … one of the ogre's flailing claws raked across his ribs and Duncan gasped, almost losing his grip but hanging on viciously as he pulled his dagger back for the kill, a hot spray of blood exploding into his face as he sliced the ogre's neck.

The ogre went down with a screech, tumbling to the slick grass and Duncan wearily pulled himself from the ogre's body, gritting his teeth and pressing an unsteady hand to his wounded flank. A sick unsteadiness passed over him as he clambered toward Cailan's body, collapsing beside the king and searching vainly in disbelief for any Grey Warden still standing amidst the waves of darkspawn.

Dead. They were all dead. Bodies of his comrades, his _**friends**_, the men he had shared drinks with yestereve littered the sodden grass around him surrounded by corpses of filthy darkspawn.

And there was no way even Alistair and Elissa could survive; they wouldn't get out of the infested Tower alive.

An axe swung toward him and Duncan realized that his Deep Roads had come. _We have failed_, he thought. _We are doomed._

OoOoOoOoOo

Smoldering ruins lay below her: the wreckage of twisted tents, the brackish glint of dull copper blood running in rivers entwined with black blood of the darkspawn. It was a gory display to behold, unpleasant and sickening. Flemeth had lived a long, long time, and while the bloodstained battlefield was not a new sight, it _**was**_ unnerving: her own existence was in jeopardy unless the Wardens survived, for even powerful Flemeth could not stand against the darkspawn and their archdemon alone.

The flaming beacon atop the Tower of Ishal caught her eye and Flemeth descended, sharp eyes greedily scanning for her prey. She landed easily atop the Tower, pleased the area was free of living darkspawn but knowing they would make their way through the Tower soon enough to search for any survivors to either feast upon or drag back underground, depending on their state. She needed to hurry.

She had been tracking the two Wardens since Morrigan had brought the small, bedraggled party of recruits back to her hut in the Kocari Wilds – had it been even a day before?

_And do I believe…? Well, it seems I do…_

The two other recruits in that small party had not survived the Warden's Joining ritual but that neither surprised nor concerned Flemeth, whose sole attention scoured the ravaged corpses and the still-dying, searching only for those she needed.

The girl she located easily, dark blonde hair dull against a halo of blood near the body of an ogre. She was still alive despite being riddled with barbed darkspawn arrows, chest rising and falling unsteadily. The ogre, however, had been relieved of his ties to this existence by a sword through the face.

A male body lay unmoving near the girl's and Flemeth's heart beat a sudden abrupt tattoo against her breast until a hasty closer inspection revealed the solemn robes designating the wearer as an "approved" mage. Flemeth sneered as she turned away, brushing off her disgust of Chantry-controlled magic-users. What was the point of using magic if you took no joy in it, nor used it to better your own situation? Flemeth herself knew better than most how well magic could serve one's needs, and those who were so weak as to submit to voluntary repression were beneath even the ancient Witch's vast contempt. And the so-called "Tranquil"… _**those**_ were the abominations as far as Flemeth was concerned.

She turned away, her gaze darting across the other corpses, searching until … there he was: her sacrificial lamb if he survived the many trials before him. It was laughable, really, that this young, shy, utterly naïve ex-Templar would be the unwilling yet necessary instrument to Flemeth's ultimate success, and yet there it was – if, of course, he didn't bleed out atop this tower, which at this moment appeared very possible considering the multitude of stab wounds that had penetrated his tattered armor.

She knelt swiftly by the semi-conscious Warden, his head lolling into the softness of her chest as she pulled him towards herself to hastily survey the damage. A quiet moan wrapped in a sob stung her ears, and Flemeth busied herself quickly binding the young man's wounds enough that he would be fit to travel, feeling relief wash over the tense knots in her stomach that there was, at least, still hope.

"Hush, lad," she soothed, "Be still."

"I'm so sorry," he whimpered, glassy eyes struggling but ultimately failing to focus on the elder Witch's face, and she wondered in what dark vales his mind walked while his body lay slashed and dying atop this polluted Tower. She finished up quickly and settled him back upon the cold stone while she stooped near the girl, repeating the process of examination and binding, calming the Warden's tattered moans for release from the pain. Satisfied, Flemeth rose and considered her newest dilemma:

How best to get them home.

OoOoOoOoOo

And there's the intro; wordy, I know. lol.


	2. Korcari Wilds: Dark Have Been My Dreams

Thank you, thank you for the kind reviews! I appreciate those of you willing to take the time to comment on this fic, I'm still pretty hesitant about it – some of the Dragon Age fic here is amazing! But the plot bunny rattling around my brain refuses to be quiet so I keep writing.

**Origins: Shadow of the Blight**

By: Syntyche

Chapter Two: Dark Have Been My Dreams

_Had they known what was to happen on the morrow, the mood this night would certainly have been different. However and perhaps most mercifully, they were not to know they would be slaughtered to a man tomorrow due to the treachery of an ambitious Teryn, and so tonight they drank freely and regaled each other with tales of their exploits. Duncan sat near the fire, close enough to keep a watchful eye on the King as the young man drank his ale and listened wide-eyed as the Ferelden Grey Wardens talked and laughed, even knowing that a battle drew near. That was one unexpected blessing of the Taint, Duncan knew – every Warden valued their waking moments, knowing the time would soon come for them to end their own lives before the darkspawn blood corrupting their bodies would end it for them after driving them into madness._

_Duncan rose gracefully, nodding respectfully to the king and stretching carefully. He himself was approaching his final months, he felt; the dreams were getting worse, and he would soon venture into the Deep Roads of Orzammar for one last, glorious battle of his own. _

_Striding away from the fire and noise, Duncan quietly made his way to the tent of the newest Warden, pausing to listen carefully at the tent flap for any signs of distress within. The young Cousland had suffered grievously these past days and had declined to join her new fellow Wardens around the campfire tonight, instead retiring to her tent for some much-needed rest. There was no noise from inside other than the girl's quiet respiration and so Duncan turned away, considering ruefully that he should be getting his own rest for the night. _

"_How is she?"_

_Alistair; the junior Warden here. He had been—for him – unnaturally hushed since the Joining ceremony earlier, quietly helping Duncan dispose of the bodies of both Daveth and Ser Jory. Though he had known death was a possibility for all three Warden recruits, Alistair had still taken hard the fact that Duncan had by necessity killed Jory; Duncan suspected the unfortunate event reminded Alistair of the Harrowing ritual wherein the young Templar-in-training had been forced to slay a young mage who could not overcome the demon placed inside her as part of her testing._

"_She will be all right," Duncan assured quietly. "She has endured much in a very short length of time."_

_Alistair nodded knowingly. "It was hard for me at my own Joining; I kept wondering why I had survived when another hadn't. I don't like the feeling," he admitted uncomfortably. _

"_Alistair… " Duncan quickly weighed the need for privacy against compassion, and settled on compassion. He laid a gentle hand on Alistair's shoulder. "I do not refer to Elissa's Joining. Her parents … her family… they were murdered just days ago. We … " Duncan sighed; though he was a man who had seen much death he still could not brush it away easily. He saw Alistair's features tighten in concerned expectation and he squeezed the broad shoulder below his fingertips. "We had to leave her parents behind. I could not save them all."_

"_That's terrible," Alistair breathed unhappily, grim with empathy. "I feel so sorry for her. I had no idea – she was so focused in the Wilds, so intent on finding the treaties."_

_Duncan glanced toward the Warden's tent, careful to keep his voice low. "Her family prizes duty above all else, Alistair, she knows no other way." He added quietly," I want you to watch over her tomorrow, if you can. I will need to focus on the King, but I trust you to keep Elissa close."_

_Alistair nodded briskly in harsh resolve. "I will, Duncan," he acquiesced and then, almost brightly because Alistair trying to rein in his good humor was like demanding the sun not shine, "I think she will do well in the Wardens. You do a good job taking care of strays."_

_Instead of the answering smile he knew Alistair expected, Duncan felt sadness settle over shoulders like a heavy mantle. _

"_Walk with me, Alistair," he requested gently, and the young Warden unquestioningly fell into step beside him as they moved away from the other Wardens and the warmth of the fire. There was no easy way to say it, so Duncan simply said, "I shall be leaving for the Deep Roads soon, Alistair."_

_Alistair's firm step didn't waver, but Duncan sensed the shift in the air: unhappiness, and a slight tinge of fear._

"_But it's so soon," Alistair murmured woodenly, eyes focused on the path ahead. "There's so much I don't know yet. Why do we need Wardens to fight the archdemon? How do you prepare for the Joining?" A quick quirk of the lips. "Where is the key to the larder and was it ever kept locked before I Joined?"_

_Duncan allowed a small smile, encouraged as often as he was exasperated by the younger Warden's relentless amused cheer. "You'll see."_

_Alistair glanced over at him, wry indignation written across his young face. "That's what you always say."_

"_That's because it's true," Duncan replied swiftly, listening as small twigs made snapping noises under their boots as they walked, and the wind rustled lightly through the leaves above them. The evening breeze carried a distinct chill with it and humidity hung heavy in the air, cloying and oppressive. He nodded to the mage Wynne, long a friend of his, as they passed her sitting quietly near the tent designated for members of the Circle and she smiled back, sadness crowding her dark eyes. _

"_The dreams are getting worse, Alistair," Duncan continued gently. "I do not have much longer before I will succumb to the Taint."_

"_I … I'd rather not to think about that," Alistair admitted quietly, glancing down in shame at his weakness. _

"_Alistair," the older Grey Warden was firm. "You are strong. Do not be ashamed by your compassion; it was why you could never fully submit to being a Templar." He saw the truth of that reflected in Alistair's bright eyes and added somberly, "Whatever comes, however long we have left, do not let yourself be hardened, and focus on your duty. Any of could die at any time: no one is guaranteed tomorrow."_

"_Yes, Duncan," Alistair responded automatically. They found they had made their way back to the fireside, a welcome relief to ward off the encroaching night. Ominously thick clouds had gathered overhead, promising rain for the morrow, but the mood around the fire was still light. _

_Duncan smiled. "We will speak more when we are able. Remember to keep the young Cousland close during the battle as is possible."_

_Firelight glinted copper in Alistair's tawny hair as he nodded his understanding. He looked almost hesitant for a moment before adding, so quietly that Duncan barely heard, "Please look after my brother tomorrow."_

"_I swear to you that I will," Duncan replied. _

OoOoOoOoOo

It was not an exaggeration to say that every single centimeter of his body hurt, and he was not a man unaccustomed to physical pain. Though both Arl Eamon and later Duncan had done their utmost to keep him out of harm's way (a nod to his skewed royal heritage, but what the hell did it matter since he was a bastard anyway? The throne? _**Not**_ in his future, thankfully), there had still been the other unforgiving orphans raised by the Chantry, and later his fellow Templars-in-training who had no reservations about showing the unwelcome young bastard just how strong their collective dislike for him ran. Had Duncan not come along and conscripted him into the Grey Wardens just six short months ago, Alistair had had no allusions he was destined for anything other than drowning in a pool of his own blood after having the life beaten out of him.

He shivered and noted that he was cold, mortification staining his cheeks crimson as awareness slowly returned and he realized he had been completely stripped of his armor and clothing and his modesty was only protected at this moment by a very thin coverlet.

"In pain, naked, and cold? If this is the afterlife, I am _**so**_ disappointed," he mumbled and was startled to hear a light trill of mocking laughter in reply, followed by a voice he had not expected nor wanted to hear ever again.

"Is it any less than you have earned, I wonder? Truly, what other fate does a mage-hunter deserve?"

Another voice, somehow both stern and gentle, how he secretly thought a mother _**might**_ sound, broke in, chasing off the utter unwelcome of the first.

"Morrigan, girl, _**please**_. Do your mother a favor and prepare some of my special tea for our guests."

A gusty sigh, a swish of coarse fabric, and, "As you wish, Mother," drifted across Alistair's ears as the younger witch sauntered out of the room.

"Thank you," Alistair managed, trying to summon the inner resolve to open his eyes, but the bright sunshine trying to barrel in through his eyelids was almost as undesirable as Morrigan's presence.

"'Tis all right, boy. Morrigan is a good girl, but understandably awkward around others. We do not have much need to practice social graces here in the Wilds." The rough hands of Morrigan's mother were flitting over him now, briskly but carefully checking her handiwork, and Alistair tried not to squirm away. Weariness clung to his mind and body, and the Warden struggled to stay awake. Something wasn't right … it was on the tip of his brain, he needed to focus. Why was he here? Were the others here as well?

"Thank you for your kindness," he mumbled automatically, adding quietly because he felt he should, "I'm not a Templar anymore, you know. And I never actually hunted anyone."

"I know, young one. I've been watching you for awhile."

The ancient witch's fingernails raked through his short hair gently, soothing as she murmured words he did not understand, but a crushing exhaustion swept over him and he realized what the Witch was doing.

"I don't need to sleep, I need to see Duncan," Alistair protested wearily, struggling uselessly against the firm hands pressing him down. That triggered more memories that thankfully couldn't breach the witch's spell and Alistair felt his body resigning itself to sleep whether his mind wanted it or not.

"Please, I need to know that he's all right." His own voice was fading in his ears. "And the other Warden with me – she is my responsibility… please …"

"Hush," the Witch responded, her gravelly voice low and hypnotic, wrapping around his mind, bringing darkness he couldn't fight with it. "You need to sleep now, Warden; you will not get the chance to rest peacefully again for a very long time."

He wanted to refuse but couldn't, and as he sank unwillingly into oblivion the last image in his mind, curiously, was the sight of his mother's golden amulet smashing into the cold stone wall and shattering into many jagged pieces.

OoOoOoOoOo

"You're too harsh on the boy, Morrigan," Flemeth chided briskly as she emerged from her daughter's room, where the ex-Templar now slumbered in dark dreams. Flemeth's own room housed the female Warden, Elissa, lost too in her own grievous injuries.

Morrigan's catlike golden eyes blinked lazily at her mother as the younger witch glanced up from slicing fresh vegetables. Morrigan despised cooking, but her culinary skills were passable so she was often tasked with the chore. "I scarcely see how it is possible to _**not**_ be hard on him, Mother," she pronounced disdainfully. "He is softer than a flower petal."

Flemeth smiled an almost reptilian grin, an expression oddly at home on her weathered features. "Really, Daughter? He seems quite hard to me."

The knife slipped in Morrigan's grasp, nearly taking one of her long fingers with it. "Mother, _**please**_!"

Flemeth chuckled, enjoying her proud daughter's embarrassment. "Then don't stare quite so closely, dear. Behave, and I might even let you dress him."

A loud sigh was her only response, but Flemeth's sharp eyes caught the fleeting look of wistfulness that crossed her daughter's face. It was a shame that she had had no choice but to teach Morrigan that men were useful only as playthings, but the remembrance of her dead husband's treachery still ran deep in her ancient heart and she knew that she could not allow her daughter to become weak for the want of any man.

Flemeth absently ran one rough hand over the other, reflecting that it would not be much longer before she needn't worry about her daughter at all. The thought of being lovely again, young and beautiful and desirable, far outweighed any remorse Flemeth may have felt about sacrificing any of her daughters; _**survival**_ was what mattered. Survival was why the Wardens had been saved: one, to unite a vastly divided nation, and one, to ensure Flemeth's own continued existence.

OoOoOoOoOo

The dream had come to her again.

She had grown to expect it would interrupt her rest almost nightly, but the intensity of last night's disruption staggered her. Where before her dreams had been indistinct shadows conveying a vague sense of purpose, this latest dream was so vivid, so clear, Leliana felt she had no other choice but to bring it to the attention of the Revered Mother. Surely the wise woman would have advice for Leliana, herself only a lay sister of the Chantry who could not possibly unravel the deeper complexity of her dream on her own.

It was a dream with a message; of this, Leliana was certain. A vision given to her from a Maker the Chantry declared absent. It made her feel special, feel useful, feel like she had a purpose that went beyond caring for the refugees that daily flooded the Chantry.

Leliana wove her way through the Chantry's rose garden, the light breeze rustling her short red hair as she inhaled the delicate fragrance of the garden stirred into life by the wind. For a long time now Leliana had been happy within the safe harbor of the Chantry's walls, safe from those who had hunted and hurt her. The scars she bore no longer stung, but she saw them every day marring her pale skin with intertwining ribbons of red and reminding her why she had planned to spend the remainder of her life reflecting and meditating.

But now she had been called by the Maker to go the Source of the Blight. It was both a difficult and an easy choice for the former bard: if the Maker was calling her into service against the darkspawn, she would have to leave the Chantry behind.

Leliana hummed to herself absently, an old melody Ceceile had taught her when she was just small that she had kept close. The familiar music had always served as a comfort to the young woman and now it wound amidst her thoughts as she moved through the garden, trying to sort out her errant feelings until an unexpected sight in the corner of the garden caught her eye, startling her:

The rosebush had bloomed.

One single, beautiful rose had blossomed on a bush long dead. Leliana had never been one to accept any event as being "coincidental," and now as her finger gently soothed the soft rose petals Leliana realized she had been granted another sign from the Maker – not one, but two that made! The lay sister felt a rush of pride – no other in the Lothering Chantry could claim such a thing!

She needed to speak with the Revered Mother immediately.

OoOoOoOoOo

_(Asala was missing! That could not be!)_

_He turned frantically, seeing only the beheaded bodies of his comrades, hearing only the pounding of adrenaline in his ears, and the capacity to reason that he was so proud of fled him, leaving his mind terrified and disoriented._

"_Where is my sword?" he demanded, unaccustomed to the cresting waves of panic filling his thoughts and crowding his stomach with terror. "What have you done with it?" _

"_I'm sorry, you had no weapons on you – " was all the first farmer was able to get out before his massive fists had closed around the smaller man's neck …_

He awoke with a start, immediately and immensely grateful he had awoken when he did, before his mind could replay in his dream his shameful loss of control and the horrifying events that had followed. He saw the faces of the innocents he had murdered with his waking eyes; he did not know how much longer he could endure seeing them in also in his dreams.

Soon it would no longer matter. Nineteen days he had been in this cage with no food nor water, and he was growing weak. The cold press of the iron bars behind him bit into his back uncomfortably but he did not move to ease his own pain, accepting the discomfort as a small but bitterly welcome act of penance for his failure.

_I cannot go home. I have no sword and thus I have no name. I deserve to be here. I will not fight death, in whatever form it comes._

OoOoOoOoOo

Awareness tumbled across his mind and he surfaced from the darkness, gasping and flailing as if he'd been drowning.

He was shouting nonsense, distressed words that charged the air with his fear and desperation.

"Hush, lad, calm down," The old witch's voice soothed, but he was too miserable, too sick, too hopeless – he _**knew**_. Alistair promptly leaned over the side of the bed and vomited, acidic bile stinging his raw throat as it rushed past his cracked lips to spatter on the floor. He coughed and sputtered, heaving painfully as the motions pulled at his healing injuries. When he finally slumped back against the pillow, exhausted, Morrigan's mother kindly handed him a glass of water which he took with trembling hands.

"He's gone," Alistair whispered blandly over the rim of the glass, his sorrowful glance meeting the wise eyes gazing at him. "They're _**all**_ gone, aren't they?"

"I am sorry, lad," she responded quietly, stealing away his last hope that he had been wrong, that the dreams were just dreams, that Duncan was waiting just outside for Alistair to hurry up and get over the latest mishap he'd gotten himself into and focus on his training, _**please**_!

He wasn't wrong. They were gone. He was alone again, and this time the situation was far graver than simply that the new arlessa hated him and was having him shipped off to the local Chantry. Duncan was dead. In a cruel stab of fate, Duncan had died on a bloody battlefield when it should have been him instead – why _**hadn't**_ it been him instead? Then at least there would be some hope left.

"It should have been me," he forced past his ravaged throat, feeling the bile crowd into his mouth again as he choked against the wrongness of it. This time, he didn't fight the darkness that roared in his ears louder than any ogre, and let it swallow him whole, unresisting.

OoOoOoOoOo

Mumbling in his sleep, Oghren turned over, ignoring the fact that Branka's side of the bed had long been empty and cold.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Okay, if you made it this far, leave a review pleeeeeease? Posting a chap and getting no reviews is like Alistair finding out his happy Fade dream isn't real. Depressing. ;)


	3. Korcari Wilds: I Can Cook, Yes

Please read and review if you're able - and if you know of any Alistair fans who might enjoy this fic, let them know too! Feedback is as enjoyable as bashful Alistair, so that should tell you how pleasing it is. : )

**Origins: Shadow of the Blight**

By: Syntyche

Chapter Three: I _**Can**_ Cook, Yes …

Alistair stood quietly, his tired eyes gazing out over the marsh as he attempted to ignore the unhindered speculation of the elder Witch while his mind struggled to grasp the horrifying truth of what he had learned from Morrigan and her mother, the snatches of news they had somehow been able to garner from the bloody battlefield: Teryn Loghain had abandoned the King's army? The army and _**all**_ of the Ferelden Wardens, dead? Duncan and Cailan, too…?

The Warden clasped his arms around himself, awkwardly bulky in his armor but wanting something, _**anything**_ that might ward off the tremors racing down his spine. It was hollow comfort though, and the battered metal of his gauntlets scraped roughly against his breastplate as he shifted his arms.

It couldn't possibly be true. He thought he'd been convinced before, but perhaps he had been wrong. He'd taken quite a few hits atop the Tower of Ishal, it was certainly conceivable that he'd imagined the news or that his guard had been down enough that he'd been so deceived by the Witches.

_Any of us could fall at any time … _

"How do I know this isn't some sort of trick?" he asked the witch dully, barely managing to summon the energy to speak as thoughts of Duncan clattered around in his brain. _That's right, a trick. _Had to be. Couldn't possibly be true. "Maybe I took a crack on the head in the Tower and this is all some sort of weird dream. I'll wake up any second," he assured himself forcefully. "Any second…"

Morrigan's mother watched him skeptically, the barest hint of sadness flickering in her dark eyes. "Is this a dream, Alistair?" she responded quietly, the warm roughness of her voice sliding over his ears, pointed words unwelcomingly confirming the disquiet simmering beneath his pseudo-confidence. "I think you would know if it was," she added gently, her gaze following his line of sight to a distant clump of trees half-submerged in the muddy water.

Alistair laughed shortly, an unbidden image of a lyrium-addicted Templar surfacing in his mind: a mentor of his once, one of his very few friends within the Chantry until the old warrior had finally succumbed to the madness infecting him and no longer recognized his young friend. The Warden thought of that, he thought of the tangible _**realness**_ of his dreams of the Archdemon talking to the horde. He shook his head slowly.

"I don't know that I _**would**_ know if it were a dream," he replied honestly, absently tracking the ripples across the surface of the marsh. A light breeze lifted the short hair from his forehead, mercifully stealing away the slight moisture gathering in the corners of his eyes. "There have been many times in my life when I've begged myself to wake up only to find I wasn't dreaming at all."

But the truth was he _**did**_ know that he wasn't dreaming, he _**knew**_ the truth, and he knew that he was, perhaps, the only surviving Ferelden Grey Warden. The Witch had reassured him that Elissa still lived, but until Alistair saw her for himself he refused to believe it.

He brought his eyes away from the muddy water to see the old woman still regarding him speculatively, and he got the impression she was sizing him up rather critically. Nothing new there; it was a look he was quite used to.

"Yes?" he murmured, wanting to feel irritable at her scrutiny but finding that he wasn't really feeling anything at all. The emptiness that had settled over him was familiar - he'd had his whole life to grow accustomed to being alone - but it was tearing through him far, far deeper than ever before. And he couldn't help but feel beholden to the woman for her kindness in saving his life … if it had been a kindness at all, and he wouldn't have been better off dying atop the Tower. "Can I assist you in some way?"

"Not presently," the Witch responded easily, almost amused. "But perhaps you yet might."

"Riiiight."

Alistair turned back to his contemplation after glancing worriedly toward the door to the hut, feeling an almost overwhelming desire to see if Elissa was indeed cloistered inside. "Are you sure she's all right? I should check - "

"She needs to rest, lad," he was interrupted gently. "Morrigan is with her should any trouble arise."

Alistair snorted disbelievingly. "It seems like Morrigan's presence would lead to more trouble than help," he mumbled ruefully and the old woman laughed, a noise that sounded to Alistair like it was not at all used to being heard or made: forced and rasping. Still, he was glad she hadn't taken offense; he hadn't yet ruled out being swooped upon and turned into a frog.

"Better get used to it, boy, or you're in for a rough time of it," she cackled, and Alistair was about to ask for clarification when she spoke again.

"See, here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

Elissa emerged from the hut looking, he noted with no small relief, completely intact and as determined as ever. It was also difficult not to notice the way her scale armor accentuated rather than obscured her muscular curvature, and Alistair wondered if perhaps _distraction_ was a reason there were so few female Grey Wardens: it was maybe a little hard to focus on killing darkspawn and dying young when one started to think about settling down with a beautiful wife and raising a litter of pups …

Alistair shook his head sharply, not only to dispel his sudden, unreachable daydream which he had _**no business**_ allowing right now, but also in some embarrassment that he had reflexively thought of his imaginary children as "pups"… a legacy, no doubt, left by his own upbringing.

Maker, where _**was**_ his mind today?

OoOoOoOoOo

Morrigan quickly proved herself to be an able guide once again, leading them through little used paths in the Korcari Wilds as they struck a winding route around darkspawn encampments and patrols. She had also been right about their biggest problem: getting Alistair through the Wilds without the darkspawn sensing him. Morrigan carried herbs provided by Flemeth that would throw off the smaller groups of darkspawn, but their trek to Lothering was still carried out in tense silence.

Despite the odds against finding him in the utter vastness of the Wilds, Elissa still kept a watchful eye our for Fergus' patrol. Her brother was all she had left now in the world - unless you counted the Ferelden Grey Wardens, which at this moment was comprised only of herself and Alistair; not really an acceptable substitute for the warmth of the family she'd lost through the betrayal of her father's oldest and dearest friend. When she thought of Arl Howe proudly standing next to her father that last night in her family castle, Elissa burned with an internal rage so hot she easily understood her mother's desire for vengeance.

Vengeance she would have. Justice for her family. That sentiment, at least, she and her fellow Warden shared to some degree.

Elissa wondered how comparable their losses were: she had lost her parents, sister-in-law, nephew, Nan, and … others … - she resolutely determined _**not **_to think of bright, laughing eyes and a shock of red hair - and possibly her brother. Alistair had lost the man he'd considered a father as well as his brothers in arms. He had spoken very little about any other family and she hadn't wanted to pry, and he'd done her the same courtesy.

She glanced over at her fellow Warden as they slogged through the thick grassland and immediately felt pity settle deep in her soul. Alistair stumbled along quietly behind her, desolate weariness staining every inch of his face and posture. He had refused to rest when they stopped, worrying instead about darkspawn taking them by surprise if they sensed him while he slept and his guard was down. Elissa guessed he couldn't hold out much longer, though, judging by the way her own still-healing body was complaining agonizingly at her, each step requiring more and more effort. Flemeth's magic had kept them from dying, yes, but they hadn't taken time to recover from their multitude of wounds, instead setting off for Lothering as soon as they determined their tentative plan of action.

Elissa moved quietly into step with Morrigan as the dark-haired witch continued her quick but cautious clip toward the refugee city.

"How much farther, do you think?" she murmured quietly, not wanting to attract Alistair's attention. Morrigan slowed enough to slice the stems of a bright green leafy plant, flicking them towards Elissa's face briefly before stowing them neatly in her pack.

"You'll want to collect as many of these as you see," she instructed shortly, "Elfroot. I can use it for making poultices, which I suspect we will need a good many of." Dark clouds of irritation swirled around Morrigan and the frown she permanently wore in varying degrees further embedded into her features. "I do not know how much longer it will take to reach Lothering. When traveling alone - as I prefer to do - I would have reached the village a long while ago. However, laden as I am with two exhausted Grey Wardens who can barely set a decent pace, I cannot properly fathom the length of time until we arrive." Her eyebrow arched and her tone was sweetly suggestive as she added, "I suggest we make the best use of our time by reflecting on our own thoughts as we walk, and not in conversation."

Skepticism flitted across Elissa's face but the Warden fell obligingly silent, content to ignore the Witch if silence was what Morrigan desired. Elissa slowed her pace until Alistair's trudging footfalls drew level with her own weary stride and he glanced at her questioningly, tried out a polite smile that didn't quite stick, and silently settled his light eyes on the road again.

Elissa sighed to herself as a sudden, amusedly wry thought occurred to her: saving Ferelden had never seemed so impossible.

OoOoOoOoOo

His companion eyed him as he stood over _H__er_ body, his shoulders hunched and an angry scowl locked firmly into his expression. He knew that if he didn't allow hatred to surge through him that he would begin to feel remorse, that he would hear her pleas of innocence ringing in his ears, hear her begging for mercy that he had refused to show her.

"Zevran, are you all right?" his friend asked gently.

The Antivan elf turned away from the cooling, bloodspattered body splayed clumsily on the ground before him, and thought at that moment that he wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from here.

"Yes," he said grimly. "I am fine."

OoOoOoOoOo

Hunched over a pot of stew, Elissa sighed gustily as she stirred the bubbling mess of fresh-caught hare blended with some - hopefully non-poisonous - herbs a disgruntled Morrigan had plucked along the way.

_It __**is**__ impossible,_ she told herself. Her thoughts had caught awkwardly on the enormity of their self-appointed task and now it troubled her, occupying her mind with questions of _how?_ _How are we supposed to manage this? To gather an army large enough to battle the darkspawn? How will we find the Dalish? How can we persuade the Dwarves to help? _And one thought that burned across all the others: _How can I face another darkspawn?_ She knew that even if she never again saw another genlock, she wouldn't forget the evil wretchedness of the creatures, the foul stink of their corrupted bodies, the inhuman madness in their black eyes. They were _**terrifying**_. And yet they were to use treaties procured by the Grey Wardens ages ago to assemble an army large enough to battle that multitude? _**And**_ slay this "Archdemon," whatever he was?

Impossible.

_We do our duty, pup._

Elissa swiped at the sudden bitter sting of tears that threatened to blur her eyesight. _I know that, father._

She glanced over at where Morrigan was busily pitching her tent quite a distance away from where the Wardens had constructed theirs. The Witch still looked angry, and Elissa supposed she would feel the same if her own mother had sent her off as callously as Flemeth had Morrigan.

_But at least then I would have a mother to return to._

The stew was ready so Elissa ladled out a bowl and handed it to Alistair, seated quietly nearby. He thanked her with a small smile, lapsing back into the silence that had shrouded him since they had left Flemeth's. Elissa couldn't blame him, she was feeling her own loss keenly, but she almost wished that Alistair would take the lead and tell her what to do. _**He**_ was the senior Warden now, _**he**_should be the leader.

Morrigan joined them by the fire, accepting her own bowl of stew and settling easily into a graceful crouch. Elissa didn't miss the quick sneer she threw at Alistair - who _**did**_ miss it, absorbed as he was with staring into his dinner - and was reminded a little of some of the girls at the spring salon last year, who taunted and derided the young men in an attempt to receive some kernel of attention from them.

"We'll need to set a watch for tonight, two hours each," Morrigan announced crisply around a mouthful of stew. "I will take the first watch; Elissa, the second will be yours if you are agreeable; and Alistair you will take the third if you can keep yourself together enough to remain alert in case you should need to warn us of danger."

"That's fine," Alistair replied dully, eyes downcast. "I will try to keep from getting us killed."

"It appears that is all we can ask for," Morrigan retorted archly, disdain coloring her tone. "So we shall have to make the best of it." The Witch rose and stalked off toward her tent, presumably to prepare for her watch. Elissa and Alistair exchanged small shrugs; Morrigan had shown no inclination to be at all social thus far; there was no reason to expect her to begin now.

"How are your injuries healing?" Elissa finally asked her companion. "Are you in much pain?"

"Well, I'm definitely still feeling it," Alistair sighed tiredly. "You?"

"A lingering headache. I guess I took a pretty good crack on the head," Elissa replied. "Among other injuries."

Alistair shook his head. "If Flemeth hadn't rescued us, we'd both be dead right now. Along with all the others … " he trailed off grimly, and Elissa watched the dark shadows that had never fully abated cloud across his face again. "All the others," he repeated softly.

Elissa laid a gentle hand on his arm, willing her emotions under control, her own half-finished thoughts spilling from her lips as she considered them aloud. "Alistair, I think we were saved for a _**reason**_. Flemeth saw that… she saw in us some small hope against the darkspawn." And, Maker, how daunting was _**that**_? "We need to figure out what to do. _**You**_," she squeezed his arm gently where it rested underneath her fingertips, "need to lead now. So, what do we do?"

Elissa was surprised by the play of emotions that chased through the other Warden's expression: sadness, fear, apprehension, all warring for control.

"I don't know what we should do. I can't focus, I can't … I can't think," Alistair admitted, head dropping to rest on his chest. "I don't know what to do." He glanced over at her, his eyes swimming suspiciously in the dim firelight but his voice steady. "I've never been a leader, Elissa, I've never _**wanted**_ to be a leader. And now… what choice do I have? You and I are all that's left of the Ferelden Wardens; _**we**_ need to get the cooperation of the Dalish, and the dwarves, we need to get the armies ready. I don't want to be a leader, Elissa," he admitted softly. "I don't know _**how**_ to be a leader - listen to me: I stumble when I talk … I'm rambling right now, oh Maker … " he trailed off miserably, adding abruptly, "I, ah, think I'll turn in now. And you should too, next watch will come around pretty quickly."

Elissa smiled warmly, compassion mixing with a familial pride as she listened to Alistair.

_Our family always does our duty, pup._

The Cousland family, second only to the king. She felt momentarily nervous as she considered the scope of their undertaking, but she thought of her father, and her mother. She thought of her mother's desire for vengeance, now passed on to her. She remembered leaving them to die.

Alistair could grieve if he chose. For her, vengeance would be her respite.

_Then fortunately for us, Alistair, I __**do**__ know how to lead. _

"We'll be fine," she reassured him he rose. "Let's not worry about it tonight." He offered her a parting smile, sweetly gentle as he ducked inside his tent. Elissa gazed into the dancing firelight and steeled her resolve for what was to come - for the task before _**her. **_

Tomorrow they would begin the task of accomplishing the impossible.

OoOoOoOoOo

Leliana did not receive the joyful understanding of the Revered Mother that she had hoped for. She knew that the woman despised her, but she felt no shame in that for it was because of Leliana's dreams that the woman did so. It was why the others detested her.

She knew she needed to leave, though to where she did not know. Perhaps the chantry in Radcliffe? She had heard much about kind Mother Hannah; perhaps she would be willing to help the former bard unravel the meaning of her dream. It would not be an easy trip - danger lurked on the road, but maybe Leliana could find a merchant bound for Radcliffe who would not be averse to a traveling companion who was well-skilled in many areas.

From underneath her thin mattress she withdrew a small package and unwrapped the soft hide with trembling fingers, revealing two wickedly sharp daggers hidden safe from prying eyes but now necessary for her journey. Sometimes in the dead of night when all was quiet Leliana would take out her daggers and practice, a whirling deadly dance that she had nearly perfected over the years.

Leliana packed her small bag and left her room. Her stomach rumbled and she laughed unexpectedly; despite the heaviness weighing on her soul, her mortal body was attempting to keep her mind firmly in the present. She had no desire to share even one more uncomfortable meal with those who shunned her presence, but she knew of a small tavern here in Lothering where one could get a hot meal for only a little coin and a well-practiced smile at a lonely bartender.

A new chapter of her life was beginning and Leliana smiled grimly in anticipation. Let them talk about her. Let them despise her if their jealousy so blinded them. She cared for them no longer nor what they thought of her.

Leliana closed the door, inhaling the fresh air a new adventure, and left the chantry behind.


	4. Lothering: Pretty As A Painting

**Origins: Shadow of the Blight**

By: Syntyche

Lothering: Pretty as a Painting

Lothering. Such as it was.

What it was, Elissa mused tiredly, was a tattered clump of houses and tents stretched out below them, battered by sorrow and fear and living on borrowed time. Ragged and exhausted refugees shuffled around with barely a word or nod to each other; even the few children scattered about were already world-weary and worn out, having seen more horrors in their short lives than many of the Fereldens who had survived the Orlesian occupation. The Grey Warden thought briefly of her late nephew, Orel, and resolutely tucked her mourning away in the corner of her mind where her mounting grief continued to be slowly devoured by her need for _vengeance_.

Elissa cast her eyes over to where Alistair knelt over the crumpled body of a dead Templar pushed forgotten against the side of the bridge; Alistair's drawn face was grey as his gentle hands carefully examined the body. Elissa looked away, tired already of death - except for the one life she hungered to extinguish - but knowing that much, much more darkness lay ahead for them.

She looked back out over the village, Whinge nuzzling her leg sweetly as he sensed his mistress' distress. Elissa idly dropped a hand to scratch behind his ears, his fur soft under her slim fingers. The blades of a windmill at the far end of the village spun lazily in the warm breeze, but the light gust that lifted the hair from her forehead did nothing to dispel the air of resignation and hopelessness hanging over the small town, heavy and oppressive to Elissa even where she stood overlooking the tangled mass of filthy humanity.

Elissa felt an unwelcome sensation crawl across her skin. How abysmal had things gotten while she had grown up secluded in Highever, play-fighting with Roddy Gilmore and attending salons while the world outside her door slowly withered from the darkness that now consumed Ferelden's southern borders, slowly reaching upward, upward …

The Warden gently fingered the coins resting against her palm. She had been groomed since birth to negotiate first, fight last, and driving off the "toll-collectors" blocking the ruined entryway into Lothering had been accomplished with ease; they had responded predictably to her well-practiced derision - and Morrigan's merciless barrage of spells - and that had served to increase Elissa's confidence - _**of course**_ she could do better than their shoddy operation. And considering she no longer even had a copper pence to her name after the fall of Highever castle, she couldn't afford to turn down any opportunity to increase their pitiful collection of coinage; as being a Grey Warden meant your basic needs were provided for but you were not _**paid**_ for your service, Alistair carried little money, and Morrigan had brought none at all.

A short, bleak laugh escaped Elissa's thinned lips as she shook her head incredulously. Not only were they three tasked with uniting the fractured peoples of Ferelden under the Grey Warden treaties to battle darkspawn before all was overrun and their homeland plunged into bloody darkness, they would also need to pick up whatever odd jobs they could find so they didn't starve while saving the world.

It was almost ridiculous, if not _**completely**_ ridiculous.

Bitter words rising behind her pulled her attention back to the present and she turned inquisitively, already biting back a sigh at the continuing saga of the Caustic Witch and the Sensitive Templar. It would have made a good story, really, if one had the time to put it into written word.

"Is my being upset so hard for you to understand?" Alistair demanded. "Have you never lost someone close to you?"

His broken questions echoed the pain that continued to torment Elissa, and she found herself as saddened for him as she was angry for her own loss. Personally - and very, very quietly - Elissa found Alistair's wide-eyed naiveté a little endearing; a tiny glimmer of amusement in a world growing darker by the day, a reason to smile when the pressure threatened to overwhelm them and send her into merciless despair.

They needed the Witch, yes, but she also needed hew new fellow Warden on her side.

"You have been very quiet, Alistair," the blonde murmured encouragingly, shooting Morrigan a stern look that only received an eyeroll from the other woman and an impatient sigh.

"Yes, I know. I was just … thinking."

Alistair's slow words started another round of bickering between he and Morrigan and Elissa found her attention threatening to wander as Morrigan sniped a remark about Alistair's intelligence; though she barely knew the other Warden, Elissa knew that he was no fool and must have received plenty of schooling in the Chantry … but there was something about himself, something Elissa didn't yet know, that caused Alistair to doubt every decision he made, every thought he dared to speak aloud.

The object of her thoughts turned to face her again. "Anyway, I thought we should talk about where we intend to go, first."

Elissa barely bit back a sigh. He was right, of course, but they had barely - no, not even yet _**stumbled**_ into Lothering and already the one who didn't want to lead was pushing them on.

She didn't try to hide the weariness in her voice as she murmured, "You have some thoughts on that point, Alistair?"

And he did; Alistair turned out to be a dragon's hoard of information as he outlined the treaties and their most viable options. Though searching for Fergus burned the brightest in Elissa's mind, she also knew they couldn't risk scouring the Wilds for a patrol that may or may not even still be alive …

Even Morrigan remained surprisingly quiet as Alistair readily supplied them with directions. His eyes were bright but tired and Elissa knew they needed to find somewhere to rest - they were all exhausted, but Alistair had stubbornly refused to sleep longer than tiny snatches stolen when he simply couldn't walk a step further, for fear the darkspawn would sense him while he was off his guard.

Perhaps, like her, grief and vengeance kept him on his blistered feet.

OoOoOoOo

She didn't know why she walked this way, yet somehow her feet carried her past the iron cage.

She had offered the qunari food once before and water thrice, but he had firmly turned her down. Leliana understood he had no desire to prolong his misery, nor even, probably, to be alive when the darkspawn finally overran Lothering and he was consumed by their blackness, but she couldn't hide the pity that swarmed her heart every time she saw him. So proud, so noble; a warrior caged unresisting.

She didn't speak to him today; she simply stared despite knowing she was being rude. On this day, the image of the caged man resonated more deeply in her soul than ever before and Leliana didn't have to question her interpretation of this feeling: she was well and truly leaving this village behind to its fate, abandoning them to die here unless the exhausted and downtrodden could somehow find it in themselves to travel the dangerous route to Denerim.

Tears welled in her eyes at the thought and Leliana brushed them aside with a laugh of disbelief. How soft she had gotten while in the Chantry! Marjolaine would have laughed her pretty head off if she could see her favorite now.

"You! Sister!"

A rough voice pulled her from unwelcome memories and Leliana turned with a raised eyebrow to face an approaching cluster of armed guards. An uneasy shiver rippled down her spine but she firmly reminded herself that they weren't here for her.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

Leliana's sharp eyes didn't miss the way the small group's leader allowed his eyes to wander over her lithe figure very briefly and for a brief second she hated her concealing Chantry robes; she found that she often missed being admired.

The guard struggled to bring his eyes back to her face and Leliana hid a pleased smile. "Excuse me, Sister," he muttered gruffly, "We're looking for a couple of Grey Wardens, a male and female…"

Leliana listened patiently to the descriptions, a stirring in her thoughts as the guard spoke. Grey Wardens, here in Lothering? Her vision never strayed far from her thoughts: the Blight, consuming all in its path, a wave of darkness washing over the land …

Whatever the charges against these Grey Wardens, Leliana knew Ferelden needed them now. And she knew she needed to find them.

With a last smile at her the guards moved off, and Leliana turned her back on the man in the cage, and returned to Dane's Refuge.

OoOoOoOo

Alistair wasn't certain whether to be impressed or horrified.

"Absolutely," Elissa said firmly, with a determined wave of her dirty hand. "Off you go."

Horrified it was, then.

With a bitter parting shot that didn't surprise Alistair at all, the Chantry sister stalked off, angrily pushing through the gaping assembled. Alistair turned his wide eyes back to where Elissa stood, arms now firmly planted across her chest as she perused the merchant's small stock of goods.

He couldn't resist his own sniping comment - "You're _**so**_ nice, I bet you make allies everywhere you go" - and realized maybe Morrigan was rubbing off on him. Alistair immediately squelched the thought; the idea of Morrigan rubbing _**anything**_ against him was … er …

Alistair felt a furious blush crawling across his cheekbones and he ducked his head under the pretense of running a quick hand through his short hair. My, how interesting his feet were today …

He finally glanced back up to see that Elissa had settled her piercing green gaze upon him, and he suddenly wished he'd just stayed quiet.

"What choice do we have, Alistair?" she questioned quietly. "Unless you're concealing a secret trove of wealth from us, in which case now would be a good time to bring it out. Otherwise, we'll do what we have to." Despite the sharpness of her tone, she laid a gentle hand on his arm. "Remember the bigger picture, my friend."

It was odd, hearing her voice so tense, and he realized that she wasn't happy with what she'd done either, but she _**had**_ done it for them. _**They**_ were the ones who needed supplies, and she'd gotten them a little coin on top of that.

And, Alistair admitted, a tiny part of him had cheered when the Chantry sister stormed off so ungraciously; anything that reminded him of the Chantry made him shudder with remembered resignation about the lyrium-addicted fate he'd nearly lived out. If it hadn't been for Duncan …

Alistair immediately checked his depressing thoughts. Maybe it just the fact that Elissa had sided with Morrigan that irritated him - how he hated the witch, hated, _**hated**_ the beautiful, poisonous witch, wished she'd never come, wished this whole thing was just a dream …

Elissa turned back to the merchant's wares and Morrigan turned her glittering gold eyes upon him, her mouth already poised to deliver yet another acerbic comment.

"I … have a wonder, Alistair, if you will indulge me … "

He could already hear the scorn in her voice.

OoOoOoOo

He could feel them now, _finally,_ the shadowy fingers of darkness crawling over him. Thirty days he had been caged here, ignoring the passersby that even dared to notice him, scowling darkly at those who did more than notice. He was not here to entertain these fools who moaned and wailed about the darkness coming but did nothing to save themselves.

But death was coming for him, finally.

Despite the weakness gnawing at him, he was still stronger than most men. Ignoring the protests from a body that had been inactive far too long, he pushed himself to his feet and began slowly speaking the ritual Qunari words.

He would not meet his end on his knees.

OoOoOoOo

It was at Dane's Refuge, the worn tavern nestled in the middle of Lothering, that they got their first real taste of what anyone who _**hadn't**_ been at Ostagar now thought of them. Ser Bryant at the chantry had brushed aside the fact that they were Grey Wardens after his initial concern, but the armed Loghain guards passing their descriptions around town weren't about to back down without a fight.

The "fight," however, was short-lived.

"All right! We surrender! You've won!"

And the Chantry sister who had intruded interjected yet again, her soft Orlesian accent brimming with satisfaction. "Good. They've learned their lesson and we can all stop fighting now."

"I don't want them reporting to Loghain," Elissa said menacingly, her anger stirred at the thought of the Wardens being blamed for the king's death. Not after what they had gone through. Not after what they had gone through in that polluted tower to ensure the signal beacon was lit. And now, to have these little _**worms**_ spreading her description around, defiling the Cousland name … Elissa grit her teeth. She was no longer in the mood to be merciful. Her family was _**dead **_and now debased…

"Please wait!" from Loghain's guards overlapped with another interruption from the sister: "They have surrendered! They were no match for you! Let them be!"

"Start running," Elissa ground out, automatically reaching down to stroke Whinge's flank and hoping the familiar movement would calm her anger. "Right now." She heard Morrigan shift restively behind her, clearly displeased by her second show of mercy, and Elissa herself wasn't sure she had chosen correctly. In both cases, Loghain's guards or the bandits on the bridge would have killed them without hesitation if they had gained the upper hand.

Unexpectedly, Alistair's hand was on her shoulder. "This is what separates us from them," he murmured softly. The guards scuttled off and the Orlesian sister turned to fully face their small group.

Her name was Leliana, recently of the Lothering chantry, now adrift by her own choice, following a shadowy vision that apparently required her to accompany them as they searched for a way to defeat the Archdemon. Behind her, Elissa heard Alistair make a small noise of despair, scarcely heard over the music in the tavern, and she knew he was conflicted about the sister joining them, bringing his own unhappy memories of the chantry to the fore.

"More crazy?" he muttered behind her, not quite masking the edge in his voice. Morrigan, too, was not thrilled with the idea.

But the sister _**was**_ good with a blade …

"You feel sorry for the people?" Elissa asked, harsher perhaps than she meant to be. "Help them here."

"Then what?" Leliana demanded calmly. "What happens when the horde comes? It will follow anywhere we flee until all we know is destroyed."

All she knew was _**already**_ destroyed.

"Then join me," Elissa gave in unhappily. "If you would fight them."

"Perhaps your skull is cracked worse than mother thought."

Elissa sighed. Perhaps it was.

OoOoOoOo


	5. Lothering: Messages and Signs

**Author's Note**: So I had thought to simply delete this story off of ff.n; sporadic updates coupled with a plethora of similar-themed fic rarely does a compelling read make. But I found that I like working on it, and I'm pretty sure it's so far tucked away in this category that no one notices it anyway, so I just wrote an update for it instead. ;D The Muse is weird that way. If anyone's reading this, please enjoy and review if you can! It shortly delves into AU, but until then I'm afraid it takes a well-worn track.

**Origins: Shadow of the Blight**

By: Syntyche

Lothering: Messages and Signs

The delighted lay sister clapped her hands together with more cheer than the weary Elissa felt their situation warranted and the blonde Warden masked a sigh. They were tired, filthy, and in way over their heads …

Now was not the time for ruthless optimism.

"Now," Leliana announced sweetly, either not noticing or totally disregarding Elissa's poorly covered annoyance, "We can set about this business of defeating the Blight, yes?"

"Is it going to be that easy?" Alistair interjected wryly, digging absently to scratch at a dried patch of mud under his glove. "Shall we just tell the Archdemon, 'Sorry, not today, thanks,' and send the horde on its way. Then?"

Leliana frowned patiently, seeming genuinely confused as she answered hesitantly, "I really do not think it will be that easy, Alistair, but it _is_ a nice thought," and she patted him on arm consolingly as though she felt he were a bit … slow.

Alistair exhaled irritably, yanking his arm away. "Oh, really? Thank you, Sister," he muttered with exaggerated grace.

This time, it was a smile Elissa hid as she looked at their small group, clustered around a wooden table off to the side, her thoughts darting ahead to the next stage of planning. Rest and resupply, by necessity in that order. Once they had rested, they could perhaps check back at the Chantry for work: Alistair had uttered some wry comment about the Chanter's Board still being in business, and they were going to need more coin than the few sovereigns and silvers they had. They had contracted with the Blackstone Irregulars - more necessary allies, although it bothered her a little to be tasked as a simple messenger - they wouldn't see the funds from that alliance for some time, if at all; Elissa had no illusions that it would be easy to find deserters and thieves spread out across Ferelden, but the goodwill of the Irregulars would be useful to have.

_And_ they couldn't afford to turn down work, and that was the blatant truth.

The waitress dropped off their simple meal - paid for the grateful Blackstone liaison - which was greedily torn into by the Wardens while Leliana picked delicately at her plate and Morrigan turned up her nose at hers.

"Sister," Elissa asked suddenly, a hopeful thought occurring to her, "do you think the Chantry would make a donation to the Wardens' cause?"

Alistair and Morrigan both scoffed in disbelief, then quickly exchanged horrified glances, appalled they had something in common, and Leliana shook her head slowly.

"They would be more likely to ask _you_ for money," the Sister murmured dejectedly. "No, I do not think we will receive much help from the Chantry unless we undertake some of the postings on the board, though the jobs will not pay very much. But please," she insisted firmly, "call me Leliana."

"All right," Elissa sighed, the sudden hope evaporating as suddenly as it had sprouted. "Let's decide our course of action: we need to set up camp and get supplies. Suggestions?"

"_Some_ of us should rest before attempting anything _difficult_," Morrigan put forward immediately, sweetly earnest yet mocking, "seeing as how they are somehow even less useful than usual - a feat that I admit I did not think was possible though I am not surprised to be proven wrong here."

"I assume you're referring to me," Alistair put in dryly. "And I'm fine, thank you." Clearly a lie - the ex-Templar was practically wilting into his dinner - but his stubbornness and perhaps his hunger for something other than trail food was at least keeping him upright.

Leliana glanced at the pair, picking up on the deep animosity running between them, and looked uneasily toward Elissa. The Warden waved a hand airily, not even wanting to explain. Leliana would see it for herself soon enough - Elissa could already tell the Sister and the witch would _not_ hit it off.

"We _all _need to rest while we can," Elissa said pointedly, arching an eyebrow at Morrigan that dared the witch to comment further. "Morrigan, Alistair, if you could find somewhere suitable to camp for a day or two? Elder Miriam suggested asking Allison about room in her barn; you may remember her: she asked about traps for her land."

Alistair's drooping eyelids snapped open quickly when he heard his name, and it seemed to take him a moment to walk backwards through Elissa's statement. "Actually, I would suggest setting up camp closer to the Highway," he interjected thoughtfully. "We already know the darkspawn are coming; we can at least be Lothering's early warning system if they draw close while we're here."

"Or you may bring them here," Morrigan pointed out icily, and the ex-Templar rounded on her in irritation.

"They _already_ coming, unless you've forgotten. I doubt us camping near the Highway will bring them here any faster." He leaned back in his chair, setting his empty fork down on his plate with a weary sigh. "At least we'll be able to sense them approaching and have time to prepare the village as best we can."

The witch scoffed and turned away with a sneer, but Elissa nodded approvingly. "Good idea," she agree.

Alistair smiled.

OoOoOoOoOo

Elissa, it seemed, had a habit of picking up strays. That reminded Alistair of Duncan, and he smiled, grateful for a little bit of the familiar in a world that was stunningly off-kilter.

Alistair cursed himself harshly for his weakness. Elissa had lost as much, if not a great deal more, than he, and yet _**she**_ was forging on without looking back, without dwelling on what she had lost.

She was determined to build an army, and short of death, she would not let herself fail.

And he would follow her to the end, he knew. Even as the rational part of his mind told him dependability and loyalty were not weaknesses, Alistair could not silence the deprecating voice in his head - that sounded a touch like Morrigan, actually - that mocked him for choosing to follow rather than lead. And yet, the Warden rationalized, he'd spent his entire life following: in was ingrained in him, just as Elissa had been groomed since childhood to command. Alistair had told Elissa that Duncan had been the first person to care about what he'd wanted and it was true, but he was just a junior Grey Warden still. His colleagues had been hazing him right up until …

Alistair blinked back sudden moisture pricking at his eyes. Until they were slaughtered by darkspawn during a foolhardy charge led by his overeager brother.

The ex-Templar shook his head sharply, forcing his wandering attention back to the large warrior standing proudly before them: a qunari Elissa had recruited to their beleaguered cause. Alistair might have protested, but Flemeth's patronizing admonition rang loudly in his ears; no, he would not speak up about turning help away again. Let Elissa enlist who she could.

"I could pick the lock," the Sister volunteered quickly, still feeling, Alistair presumed, like she needed to display her usefulness beyond the remarkable fighting skills she had shown at the tavern.

"It may come to that," Elissa agreed with an approving nod; she had already displayed a tendency for light fingers that had surprised Alistair, but he supposed nobles got bored too, why not learn some useful skills like pick-pocketing? "But let's seek a more diplomatic solution first," the Lady Cousland continued. "We'll speak with the Revered Mother."

The Sister, Leliana, twitched anxiously at that, but said nothing.

OoOoOoOoOo

However they had managed it, they had gotten the key from the Revered Mother. Alistair wasn't surprised - he wasn't sure he could resist _**one**_ of the two women on their own, let alone getting tag-teamed by them. Sten - for that's what the warrior hadn asked to be called - had been released into Elissa's custody and now they had a skilled warrior to add to their party. Although at the moment, Alistair realized, Sten looked more like an exhausted and malnourished warrior who could barely lift the Chasind flatblade the party had been lugging around since the Korcari Wilds.

Elissa seemed to share his skeptical assessment as she glanced at the ragtag of assembled quickly, never for a moment relinquishing her role as leader. "Leliana, Morrigan, and I can tackle the Chanter's Board. Sten, Alistair, get some rest so you can take the next shift. Right now we need funds desperately or we won't survive the journey across the Highway. Whinge, watch the camp," she added to the mabari, who barked dutifully and nuzzled her open palm. It was a measure of Alistair's exhaustion that he couldn't even find voice to protest; he simply nodded wearily. Sten too remained silent, for which Elissa appeared grateful; she had clearly expected him to disagree with her assessment of his weakened state.

"All right, then," she nodded her blonde head briskly, "let's get to work."

OoOoOoOoOo

Sten had decided that nourishment was his top priority. Alistair had quietly taken a little coin from their meager stash. If the qunari hadn't eaten in a month - it simply wasn't fair that Alistair's cooking had to be the first thing he tasted - and headed back to Dane's Refuge. They had quietly agreed that Sten would stay at camp to avoid terrifying the villagers who all knew why he had been imprisoned, and Alistair would fetch food while the warrior rested.

Their makeshift camp had indeed been erected by the Highway, near the refugee tents but far enough away that hopefully no one would glimpse the qunari and try to start any trouble. They hoped.

Alistair was tired but he couldn't sleep, so he was happy to undertake this small but useful errand. He wanted to sleep, desperately needed to, but when he closed his eyes he saw endless piles of bodies, when his mind relaxed whispers from the Archdemon crawled across his thoughts, when he started to sleep he heard the screams of the dying …

Somehow he found himself in the gardens behind the Chantry, meandering mindlessly through the flowering bushes and gratefully inhaling their fresh scent. Alistair knew he would never forget the smells that now that clung persistently to his waking moments: charred, rotting flesh, the raw stench of darkspawn, the unpleasantness of his own filthy body sweating inside his armor, but for a few moments he could stop and smell the flowers, and be glad.

Something caught the Warden's eye as he walked, vibrant flash of crimson on a bush tucked away in a corner of the garden. Though most of the rosebush had long since withered, Alistair was surprised to see that a single rose had bloomed, nearly flawless in its composition. It had been long since the Warden had seen a flower so lovely and he felt a stab of regret that it would soon perish when Lothering inevitably fell to the darkspawn ravaging their way up from the Wilds. Almost without thinking, Alistair withdrew a small dagger from his boot and, gently reaching around the thorns jutting out from the stem, grasped the rose carefully and sliced it from the bush. He thought for a moment his own natural clumsiness would cause him to lose a finger or two in the process, but somehow he managed. As the freed flower came loose in his palm Alistair glanced up guiltily, almost expecting to meet the stern glare of the Revered Mother of his youth, even though this wasn't the Redcliffe chantry, but he thankfully alone in the garden. It would also definitely be for the best if Morrigan didn't see this 'display of trite sentimentality …'

"What are you doing?"

Maker, it was as if he had summoned her by _**not**_ wanting her to be here. Carefully blocking her view of his hands with his shoulders, Alistair gently slid the delicate rose into his pack.

"Nothing," he replied shortly. "I couldn't sleep. And Sten is hungry," he added lamely, feeling himself wither a little under her scornful glare. Morrigan studied him with an eyebrow arched nearly into her hairline, her skepticism obvious.

"Well, what are _**you**_ doing?" he retorted defensively. "Aren't you supposed to be helping Elissa?"

Morrigan snorted expressively, her dark hair falling into her golden eyes as she tossed her head. "I grew weary of being ogled by the Chantry's templars." She smiled coldly at him, just the right amount of taunt in her tone. "I'd much rather come out here and be ogled by you."

"I told you, I was looking at your nose," Alistair replied wearily. "I think I've already mentioned it looks just like your mother's…?"

Her sneer wobbled and dropped, though Alistair was exhaustedly gleeful to see she'd looked almost _human_ for a moment. "Walk with me, Alistair," she instructed, and Alistair had half a second to realize he'd spent his entire life being bossed around by authoritative women before mumbling,

"Wait, I have to get some food for Sten…"

She _tsk_ed sharply, already walking away from him; clearly by _walk with me_ she actually meant _walk the appropriate ten steps behind me where you belong_. "I will make him something to eat. It would be best to save our coin for when we will have more need of it, do you not think so?"

Her casual derision almost made him feel ashamed that he had even _**thought**_ to spend their money on _**food**_ for a starving man, but he was simply too weary to do more than blink at her guilelessly.

"Well, that's nice of you," he finally said.

She rolled her glittering eyes in annoyance as she scoffed, "Do not mistake kindness for practicality. Now, accompany back to camp in silence and save your foolishness for one with more patience for you than I."

Her words were as harsh as her tone but the Warden was strangely compelled to follow the witch anyway, and he swallowed the smallest amount of nervousness when she ducked swiftly into her tent while gesturing that he should follow.

The witch moved to the small camp table she'd already laden down with flasks and drying herbs and began mixing busily. "Sit. Take off your boots," she commanded briskly, adding water to the cup.

"My boots?" Alistair asked numbly, dropping awkwardly onto her bed tiredly. The scent of warm earthiness drifted up from the pelts she softened her bed with, and the rush of sleepiness that washed over him almost had him closing his eyes right then.

Morrigan sighed sharply, clearly well tried beyond the limits of her patience by his reticence. "I have been charged with the task of keeping you well," she said tartly, and though her words rang true on the surface it seemed that there was something deeper there, a warning his weary mind was having trouble piecing together. "And you clearly have overexerted yourself," she added sardonically.

"Yes, well, I _**have**_ been busy," he sniped back, hands still hovering near his boots, twitching restively as though he couldn't quite make his body follow through with removing the heavy footwear. Finally he had them tugged off and in a rather sloppy pile and he looked at her expectantly, blinking heavy-lidded eyes upward.

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Undo your armor."

His weary hands moved seemingly of their own accord; Maker, but it felt good to unclasp the buckles of his splintmail and let the pieces drop to the ground. He really needed to wipe down his armor before he did anything else … probably he should do that now, at least until Morrigan grew bored with tormenting him and turned him into a disgusting frog or whatever it was she did …

"And your pants," she added finally, and he looked at her with some surprise as he registered a change in her tone, an almost imperceptible huskiness that hadn't been there a minute ago. Alistair stopped mid-motion reaching for a clean tunic from his pack, dropped carefully by his feet when he'd sat down.

"What?"

"You have ears, do you not?" Morrigan said coldly. "Those bright red things perched on the sides of your head?"

"I heard you," Alistair stumbled. He could feel his face flaming. "I just don't think … "

"Or do you have something to hide?" the witch sneered, eyes bright and challenging. Alistair valiantly fought the blush that was squirming across his cheeks.

"Nothing," he retorted, quickly bringing the cup she handed him to his lips to hide the crimson burning his face. "Not that you'll ever see, anyway," he added, to make himself feel better. He didn't at all like the mocking laugh that followed.

"Don't be so sure, little Templar."

Alistair was already feeling drowsy; a gentle push against his shoulders was all it took to tip him into the pillow that was suddenly beneath his head.

"Oh, I'm sure," he fought against his drifting mind to add. "Don't even worry about it."

OoOoOoOoOo

Alistair is so adorable. ;D


End file.
